Threebloody times.
Three humiliating bloody times.
First from the loss of blood. Fine. Acceptable, if embarrassing. The second time more so. But this time? Being attacked from the back while he couldn’t defend himself? Bloody unacceptable.
A door opened at his back. Every sense Drake possessed snapped awake at once. His spine tightened despite the ropes, pulse spiking, breath going shallow. Footsteps padded over, unhurried. A man came into view, crouching before him. His memory had no space for this man. Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.
“I never thought she’d get entangled with someone like you,” the man said mildly.
Drake’s jaw clenched. “Where’s Violet?”
“Ah, yes. You know her as Violet. I know her as Evangeline.”
“And who the devil are you?” Drake growled. “Except a tiny cockchafer in need of a thrashing.”
“Me?” A slow smile spread across the man’s face. “I’m Percival Horace, the Earl of Bramblewick, Evangeline’s fiancé.”
Her bloody what?
The word struck him cold and hot all at once—ice down his spine, heat flaring sharp and sudden in his chest. His mind,however, rejected the claim outright, batting it aside like a poorly aimed blow. Yet at the same time, a treacherous memory surfaced. Their last conversation about secrets. The ones that could ruin the relationship between lovers.
But they weren’t lovers.
Who are you still trying to fool, you arse?They had been lovers, damn it. They had been since the moment he’d kissed her in her courtyard. He had simply been too much of a fool to realize the bloody truth. Was this what she had meant? Why she had changed her mind? An engagement?
No.
He would not accept it. Could not. Violet was not the sort to dally with a man while promised to another. She was fire and principle both. Whatever this was, it stank of manipulation, calculation.
“That’s rot,” Drake said flatly. “And if you expect me to believe it, you take me for a greater fool than I am.”
Percival regarded him for a long moment. “I did not take you for a man who clung to comforting fictions.”
Drake’s mouth curled. “And last I heard, you were meant to be in a crate.”
“Did you truly believe I wouldn’t escape?”
He might have believed that question to be laced with arrogance had the man not looked like he wanted to cast up his accounts at the mention of the crate. Knowing Serpent, he’d picked the smallest one.
The earl rose to his feet and strode to the wall, leaning back against the stone as he regarded Drake. “You are the fool here, believing you could have a woman like her.”
Drake bared his teeth in a grin, taunting. “I’ve already had her.”
“Yes, so I’ve gathered.” His face turned cold. “I’ll have to fully remove the stench of you from her body.”
A scowl replaced his smile. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
“You are a stain, Mr. Fury. And stains can be removed.”
This bloody madman. “You are mistaken,” Drake growled, cursing his inability to throttle the man. “I’m the stain you’ll never get rid of.”
Percival reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a folded parchment. “Do you know what this is?”
Drake refused to fall into the man’s trap and answer that blasted question.
“It’s a special license.” The cockchafer’s mouth lifted into a smug grin. “In mere hours, she will be my wife, and forever out of your reach.”
Rage flooded every part of his being. “You can’t force someone to marry you.”
